


Top Shelf Scotch

by MadameMontgomery



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #HardAtWorkChallenge, Angst and Humor, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Hints of Preller, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Team Sassy Science, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMontgomery/pseuds/MadameMontgomery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So no phone. No alarm clock. That explains why you’re late. But what’s your excuse for that hangover?” She eyed him for a moment, and he knew he was fucked when a grin slid across her face, “Was it the texts?”</i>
</p>
<p><i>“Shut</i> up<i>, Bev.”</i></p>
<p>---</p>
<p>A day in the life of Brian Zeller after the events of Fromage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top Shelf Scotch

**Author's Note:**

> MY GOD IT'S GOOD TO BE BACK!
> 
> Dear friends, it's been so long. Real life had been...occupying for a while, and sadly it was affecting my writing. After months and months of struggling, I finally finished this fic and almost cried in happiness and relief. I am honored to share this new piece with you all, and if all goes well, I should be back much more often to bring you new stories! :D
> 
> While I wasn't able to post in time for the collection, this was originally written for the [Hannibal Crea-ate-ive's](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/) _Hard at Work Challenge_.
> 
> I own nothing but my mistakes!

It was 9:52 on a Monday morning, and Brian Zeller was hungover, drinking cold coffee, and late for work.

Fucking marvelous.

He was already exhausted from the influx of bodies that past week. One after another after another, missing a kidney, a stomach, a heart. Fucking cut in half and sitting on a goddamn school bus. 

All catalogued. All analyzed. As if they were numbers in a report and not human beings lying cold and dead on his exam table. “Exhausted” was an understatement. “Too numbed out and horrified to even think about falling asleep, let alone dream” was more accurate. He’d been considering asking Graham for suggestions for the cheapest whiskey that’d knock him out the fastest. 

Zeller huffed a laughed before wincing down another sip of coffee. He doubted Graham would find it as funny as he did. The guy always had that weird mixed look of distrust, horror, and irritation. He really needed to lighten up.

His brief fantasy of throwing his arm around Graham’s shoulders while buying him a beer was interrupted by the car behind him honking its horn. Zeller frowned, thought of what Jack’s face would look like when he walked in late without calling in ahead of time, and frowned harder.

It wasn’t like he purposely didn’t give a heads up, but in his drunken stupor last night, he figured that the best way to get Bev to stop texting him was to stop the phone itself. Letting the battery run out effectively killed the conversation but also effectively killed his only alarm clock. 

Jack was gonna tear him a new one.

She’d been going on about how she cracked this urban-legend-but-maybe-Chesapeake-Ripper mystery, which was fucking incredible. He teased her, saying if she kept this up, they might all be out of jobs soon, but to be honest, he was so proud of her. Bev, being the amazing, intuitive person that she was, seemed to understand what he meant.

But then she started going on about how “Dr. Sexy” had saved that guy’s life with his awesome surgeon skills and that Will was basically swooning over him and had dropped off some wine at his fancy ass party even though there was a goddamn blizzard outside, _and if that isn’t some romantic, Nicholas Sparks type bullshit, Z, I don’t know what is—_

Bev had a tendency to exaggerate when it came to stories, but still. The entire thing made him want to down a bottle of something strong, specifically top shelf scotch, which was expensive and fancy and would be perfect for that extra “fuck you” to that pretentious twat _Dr. Hannibal fucking Sexy fucking Lecter._

And so he did. And so he was strongly regretting his choices this morning. 

By the time he pulled into the parking lot, Jack was already thundering towards him, pissed off as ever. Resigned, Zeller chugged the rest of his cold sludge.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Jack barked.

“I—”

“I don’t fucking care. Get back in your car and get to Dr. Lecter’s office immediately.”

_Of fucking course._ “Fine, but what’s going—”

“There’s been an attack. Two bodies. Will’s already on his way.”

===

Zeller had never been to Lecter’s office, but seeing it now, he wasn’t surprised it looked the way it did. A red accent wall, an entire floor of bookcases, a fireplace, a fucking harpsichord. He glanced around the top floor again and did a double take. Was that a black and white photo of _ears?_

The place was like one of those weird modern art museums. Which he was certain Graham wasn’t into. Couldn’t be into. 

“Hey, did you get my messages last night?” Bev said, thankfully putting an end to that disturbing train of thought. 

“Is now really a good time?” he hissed, pointedly taking another picture of the bloodied deer statue. 

Bev shot him a look. “Okay, fine. Yes, I got your messages, but my phone died, okay?”

“So that’s why Jack looked like he was gonna blow a gasket this morning. No call in.”

“Shut up, Bev.”

She kneeled down, angling her own camera to get a better shot of the mess of blood and brain matter. It would probably leave an ugly stain on that polished gray hardwood. Zeller almost felt a pang of sympathy for Lecter, but he figured the man had bigger problems at the moment.

Lecter was sitting at his desk, the most ruffled he’d ever seen him. Physically, he looked exactly like he’d been in a fight. Hair in his eyes, suit rumpled, bloody and bruised and clutching his leg. Jack had taken one look at him and sent the medic over. But Zeller couldn’t get over his expression. The man looked lost and distantly horrified, like he had made a terrible decision and was now only realizing the consequences. It was a bit unnerving. 

But he figured killing anyone for the first time, even in self-defense, was a traumatic experience. Truthfully, he was grudgingly impressed that Lecter was able to do it in the first place. He didn’t think anyone who went to the opera and wore designer leather shoes could fight a serial killer to the death and win. 

Life was full of surprises. 

“So no phone. No alarm clock. That explains why you’re late. But what’s your excuse for that hangover?” She eyed him for a moment, and he knew he was fucked when a grin slid across her face, “Was it the texts?”

“Shut _up_ , Bev.”

“What texts?” asked Price, apparently finished with photographing the bodies. 

He wondered how much more Jack would be pissed at him if he just started screaming. “There aren’t any texts, Jimmy,” he gritted out.

“I was texting him last night, and the fucker didn’t reply,” Bev said immediately after.

Price stared at them for a moment, eyes unreadable. He fought down to urge to fidget. It was weird that his normally talkative friend was being so quiet. “Are you two…?”

Zeller’s jaw dropped while Bev tried to smother her giggles behind a cough. “What the fuck? No! No, Z’s got the hots for— _Will!_ Oh my god, are you okay?”

He turned, wide-eyed, to see Graham stagger over to them. He was in a similar state as Lecter: hair and clothes wrecked. He stank of hot metal and gunpowder. His expression was haggard, but strangely his entire body was slumped in relief. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. His voice was a bit too loud, as if he couldn’t quite hear himself.

“Jack said there was a fight at the shop, and—”

“Jesus fuck, Will, you’re bleeding,” he cut off Bev, staring at the blood dripping from Graham’s fingers.

Zeller watched in horror as he slowly lifted his hands and blinked at the long cuts across his palms. “Yeah,” he said distantly, “there was…a fight.”

“Jesus. We gotta get those wrapped, Will. Here, let me—” he put his hand on Graham’s shoulder, meaning to shuffle him over to the medic, but stopped when the man shook him off.

“I said I’m fine. Besides,” he looked past them at Lecter, who was staring at Graham like it was a miracle or the second coming of Jesus or something. That level of attention would have made him uncomfortable, but Graham just stared back, relief leaking in his harsh tone, “I’m not the one who was hurt.”

He opened his mouth to object, to say that Graham was wrong, that those bleeding cuts on his palms proved him wrong, that he could help him if only he would _let_ him help him, but Graham was already walking away. 

They all watched as Graham and Lecter leaned into each other, whispering to themselves. He had thought, _hoped_ , that Bev had been exaggerating about how they looked at each other, but she really hadn’t. Their faces told him all he needed to know.

Still, he didn’t turn away until Graham gently started dabbing Lecter’s wounds with a handkerchief. A man could only take so much.

“Oh. Z, I’m sorry,” said Bev.

Price didn’t say anything at all.

He nodded tightly before snapping another picture. There was a lot of work to do right now. He could wait to drown his fucking feelings in alcohol later. 

Thank god he’d bought two bottles of scotch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Kudos and comments are a writer's lifeblood!
> 
> Come say hi!
> 
> [stormygalahad.tumblr.com](http://stormygalahad.tumblr.com/)


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